All I Wanted Was a Picnic
by Michi Keinz
Summary: UKUS GerIta Take 1 stressed-out England, 1 confused Germany, a basket full of pasta, and a picnic-gone-wrong. Then add an envious Russia to the mix. Things just went from romantic to crazy in record speed. (Up under a new author)
1. For Better or For Worse

**_For Better or For Worse_**

* * *

Germany thought today would be like any other with Italy making enough pasta to feed a country, and he recording anything of importance. That was, until he got the phone call, the one that would forever change life as he knew it.

It started with him munching on a cold bagel at ten in the morning, meaning Italy should of gotten up about thirty minutes ago.

Right as the thought crossed his mind the screech of the shower came to life. Just as he predicted, Italy was up. And since nothing was planned for today, Germany had no reason to rush things. Days like these were rather rare, but whenever they did come Germany made sure to take control over them. And what was even better? The fact that tomorrow was a "do nothing" day as well.

A small smile graced his lips. He knew Italy would love the news; he always did.

Unlike other lovers, Germany and Italy's relationship wasn't at all complicated for the most part. Italy was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy and straight up loved making friends - despite his irrational fear of anyone a smudge stronger than he - but he did tend to annoy Germany on certain levels. Even his moody brother Romano had issues with the loving nation half of the time. Aside from all that, it was extremely easy to take a liking to Italy. He was nice, kind, and fun to be with. Nothing mean or rude to him. That's what made Italy Italy, and truthfully, Germany wouldn't have it any other way.

On the other hand, Germany was like a polar opposite of Italy. Turn Italy's personality a whole three-sixty and you get Germany, the easily-irked, muscular, stoic-type man. Sometimes, whenever they would go out together, they'd get many odd looks from people around them. But the thing was, Germany didn't blame them. He'd be curious as to why two people of completely different personalities were out together too. Who wouldn't? That's one of the reasons why Germany preferred to not do things in public places, though Italy never minded.

Taking another bite of his cold breakfast, Germany heard the shower shut off. Then the phone rang.

_What?_

Now who on earth would be calling him? It's not like he had many friends to start with.

Getting up from the kitchen chair, he walked over to the phone and only hesitated for a second before picking it up.

"Hello?" he said, voice partially skeptical.

"Germany?"

Germany instantly recognized the British accent of England, though there was a hint of unease in the voice. What really got Germany confused was why the Brit would call him. It's not like they were close or anything. As a matter of fact, Germany recalled rejecting England's friendship offer a long time ago. They were better than that now, but still not close enough to be considered friends. Perhaps he was calling for Italy? Germany couldn't remember them being friends either, though they were considerably closer despite any past grudges. Germany could butt out the idea that he probably wasn't calling for the Italian. So maybe he simply called the wrong number? All the thoughts crossing his mind were beginning to cause a migraine.

"E-England? What are you calling here for?" He wasn't being nosy. After all, England was the one that called him.

A brief silence went up where both countries dared not to speak. To say this was awkward was an understatement.

There was a deep intake of breath on the other side of the line before Germany heard the other nation answer, "Well, you see, I-I was simply wondering if you and Italy had any plans for tomorrow?"

And Germany thought it couldn't get any more awkward.

"Plans? For tomorrow? Why?"

A gulp. "Um, er, perhaps we could - and this is entirely your decision - have a picnic?"

Ah, yes, there it was: Getting even more awkward.

Germany paused all sane thoughts for the moment, processing what the other man had just said. He was pretty certain that either they weren't getting good reception, or that England had finally lost his last shred of sanity. Option B seemed the more likely one, especially with England's "friends" he claimed to have.

"Excuse me? Am I hearing you correctly?"

"No! Uh, yes! I mean . . . Bloody hell, I don't know! This is too hard to say!" It sounded as if England was possibly having a seizure.

With England ranting about something Germany couldn't make out, the bleach-blonde man drew in a small breath and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand, waiting for the other to calm down. When he did, Germany spoke up again, now trying to get an answer.

"England, just please explain whatever's going on."

Some banging went on before a sigh went through the phone. "I want to have a picnic tomorrow with America and thought it best if you two attended as well and-_WHAT THE HELL?! AMERICA! WHY IS MY TOILET ON THE GROUND FLOOR AND WHY IS THERE A GIGANTIC HOLE IN THE CEILING?!"_ A muffled response could be made over the phone and, from what Germany could make out, it mentioned something to do with hamburgers.

Arguing ensued, and for that time Germany pondered over what England said. A picnic . . . tomorrow . . . with them. Oh! That's right! England and America had been going out for a while now. A little over a decade perhaps? So what England must've been getting at was that the picnic could sort of be like a double date. Now the only question left was why England would want to do that - and with him and Italy of all people! England was more of the private type. There had to be a good reason for this.

The fighting suddenly stopped when Germany heard a door slam shut. Another sigh passed from England.

"Sorry you had to deal with that; America's an idiot, that's all. Anyways, aside from that, what do you think of the idea?" A weird perk was in the Brit's voice.

Germany drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "I guess it's fine, but why do you want to do this? It's unlike you."

There was a dull thump and a few curse words from the British man. Then a quite, barely audible response, "I want to . . . ask for . . . America'shandinmarriagethere." The last sentence was said so fast that the words were slurred so close together that it was remotely impossible for Germany to make sense of them.

"I'd understand it better if you spoke in real English," he said, seriously concerned for his fellow nation's mental health.

England made a groaning noise; he was probably annoyed at himself for speaking like a retard. "I . . . want to . . . propose . . ."

No, now THAT was awkward.

"Oh . . . I can see why you're so uneasy." That just might have been the most unintelligent thing ever spoken by Germany.

"I . . . do realize this is sudden and all, but, please, will you agree to it? I'm not trying to force anything onto you. I know you're a busy man and all and I-"

"Okay, we'll come." And with that, Germany cut England off. "But I need to make sure Italy wants to come before anything, though I'm sure he will be happy to."

If Germany could see people through the phone, he was a hundred percent positive that magical rainbows and unicorns were surrounding the Brit.

"W-What? Really?! Oh, God! Thank you so much! You have no idea how much of a life saver you are! And don't worry about bringing a lot of food or anything! I don't want to burden you! Though Italy will probably bring pasta, right? Well, anyway, it's tomorrow at two so come around then! Bye!" Just like that, the phone line went dead.

Germany held the phone in his hand for a minute, wondering exactly what he got himself into. England wanted to propose to America? How romantic . . . ish.

Light thumping down that stairs meant that Italy was done with getting ready. It also meant that Germany had to ask if he wanted to attend the picnic.

"Hey, Germany~ I found an interesting bug in the shower, Germany~ It was purple, Germany~ It reminded me of a grape!" The sing-song voice of Italy made its way over to the other side of the table, taking a seat.

"A purple bug?" Germany echoed, then shrugged. Whatever went on in the Italian's life was his own business. "Italy? Would you like to do something tomorrow?"

The slender man's eyes remained closed as his head tilted to the side. "Like what?"

"Go on a picnic with England and America? England proposed the idea and suggested we come."

Watching as the Italian simply swayed from side to side, Germany waited for his answer. It took a good five minutes before he got one.

_"Magnifico~ _I'll make a pasta! A really big pasta! Like your anatomy, Germany! How's that sound?" It's funny how innocent Italy could sound when saying something like that.

"Sure . . . And just to let you know, England plans on proposing to America, so be ready for that." Germany had a feeling he should tell Italy just to be cautious - he didn't want the thing to get screwed up and England give him hell for it.

_"Cosí romantico~ _I hope America accepts! Wouldn't that be wonderful, Germany?" Italy sang, getting up and skipping off to the stove. "I'll make a whole lot of pasta!"

Germany hoped the pasta would fit in a container this time.

* * *

As England sat the phone down on the charger he was stuck between smiling at his accomplishment, or frowning at the stupidity of it all. How did he even come up with the idea? Wouldn't it of been much simpler to simply ask America to marry him over a simple little dinner at a somewhat romantic restaurant? Apparently not. Oh no, his brain had to go off on its own and talk Germany and Italy into having a picnic with him. Bloody freakin' terrific. Now he just needed to figure out a way to propose that was neither cliché nor idiotic. Perhaps something classy but not too classy . . . Romantic but not too romantic . . . Unexpected . . . Unoriginal . . .

England's forehead collided with his kitchen table hard. He had no idea what to do! This was like trying to map out a plan for the Bermuda Triangle! Or like trying to swim in hot lava. Why would he even decided upon doing something so ridiculous without a clue on how to do it! Sex, yeah, sure, whatever. He'd been doing that for centuries upon centuries. But marriage! Not once in his long life had that ever crossed his mind! Well, besides that one time with France . . . But he never agreed to it so it never counted!

Great, now he was getting paranoid.

Lifting his aching head from the table's wooden surface, England let his thoughts drift over to America. His America. The one he had raised almost like a son. The America that grew and fought for his own sake. The one that had just recently broke his toilet . . . wait a minute.

"AMERICA!"

Blood boiling like hell itself, the pissed Brit swung the kitchen door back hard enough to make a dent in the wall and marched up the stairs and to America's closed bedroom door. So what if they lived together? People needed their personal space _sometimes._

"Open this door right now you insufferable git!" England all but screamed.

"No!" was the muffled response. England imagined America had shoved his face in a pillow like stressed teenagers tended to do.

Sure as heck not taking that answer, England grabbed the knob and twisted it until it gave way and turned. Being a nation had its perks.

Not wasting any time pushing the door forcefully enough for it to almost come off its hinges, he stormed into the room, finding the other face-down on the bed. America's arms were folded over his head, which was indeed buried in a polka dot pillow - why England let him get that was a mystery. His legs were pounding on the bed in frustration like a five-year-old child. Really, had the Brit taught him nothing?

Running a hand through his messy blonde hair, England sighed. He knew that he had to be the one to fix things because - and this was fact - America would never do something as mature as that.

England drew in a shaky breath, gaining his bearings. Calm and collected. That's what he needed to be. If Alfred wanted to be the emotional type then it was his responsibility to keep him from going into a complete wreck.

Walking over to the bedside, England took a seat next to his boyfriend's head, hesitating before setting his hand in dirty blonde hair. When there was no protest the older nation ran his hand over the smooth hair, avoiding Nantucket. England heard a soft sigh escape the other's lips and he smirked. Sometimes it was too easy to calm America down when he went into rage-mode if you knew what to do.

"Alfred . . . I'm not mad, alright?" Lies. The lot of them. Damn right he was mad, but he could hold off that anger for now.

Whatever America responded with was muffled by the pillow, but it sounded like "of course you are." England went with it.

"Well, maybe I am. Who wouldn't be? I just want to know where on earth you got the idea to flush hamburgers down a toilet. Seriously, who does that?" Really, England did want to know. Those types of ideas don't just "appear" out of nowhere.

The Brit watched as America picked his head up and rested it on his arms, his lips forming a pout.

"I just wanted to . . . experiment a bit. I thought that they would dissolve or something, not back up the drain pipes and cause the bathroom to fall through the floor." America's voice actually sounded guilty.

_A bloody experiment . . . _"Thanks to your experiment, one of my rooms is now ruined. I'll have to call for repairs . . ." England trailed off as the thoughts of how much money would have to go into the expenses; he tried to keep the grimace off his face. "But let's forget about that right now. It was an accident. Everyone makes them."

America turned to face the opposite wall. "But not everybody makes toilets fall through the floor."

Now that was true. Jeez, America was not making this easy for England at all. "Look, it's fine, okay? I know that your accident was more major than usual ones, but . . . you're an idiot and I can't do much about that. Neither can you."

England thought America's frown had deepened, but he watched silently as it flickered into a tiny smile.

Then he went all out into hysterics.

That nation could laugh at _anything._

"Dude, I know! I'm just that epic!" There was that attitude England loved so much . . .

"Oh shut up you bloody prick." Lightly whacking the other over the head, England realized he couldn't suppress the smiled forcing its way onto his face.

America pushed his face back into the pillow, quieting his laughter. England rolled his eyes before remembering he never even mentioned his plans to America. How stupid of him.

"How does a picnic sound?"

The laughter briefly stopped and the younger nation emerged once again from the pillow. "A picnic?" America's blue eyes were so wide and child-like England had to force himself not to jump him then and there.

"U-Uh, yes, a picnic, with Germany and Italy."

America furrowed his eyebrows. "With them? How did you even get them to come? You're not exactly people-friendly, ya know." Like he had said nothing of importance, America drew circles in the blanket with his finger, smiling like an idiot while he did.

England got a tic over his eye. "I'll let you know I _do _have friends!"

"Sure ya do . . . Now, about the picnic, yeah, it sounds good." Blatantly ignoring the Englishman, America went back to the previous subject.

"Well good, it's tomorrow at three." England said emotionlessly and motioned to get up, but as he did there was resistance on his left wrist and he looked down to see America's fingers tightly wrapped around it, showing no signs of letting go anytime soon.

England let out a partially annoyed sigh and let America have what he wanted.

Laying down beside the other nation, England pulled his wrist free and wrapped his arm around the younger's shoulders, using his other to run it through blonde hair. How America went from obnoxious to cute in a millisecond would forever remain a mystery to the Brit, but when he felt America wrap his own arms around his torso and bury his head in his chest he really didn't care.

Resting his chin atop the blonde mess, England wondered what tomorrow would bring. Anything could happen, hectic or not. England feared something bad was bound to happen. Those types of things seemed to follow him around wherever he went. It was like a curse.

England pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, refusing to let them ruin his mood. He was content and he didn't need those pestering little buggers around to irk him anymore than he needed to be.

Breathing in the sweet scent of America, the curious thought of what America's reaction would be began to bug him. Was it possible it wouldn't be what he expected? No, that was rubbish. He was completely stupid to even think something as absurd as that.

Nope, tomorrow would be absolutely perfect, and England was going to make it that way.

* * *

**_ A/N _****** this is a story I had been writing with a friend and she decided she wanted out, so she let me post it on my page and continue it


	2. Beauty Atop Insanity

Arthur noticed, with great annoyance, that warm sunshine was leaking through the blinds brightly. Though he hadn't even been awake for thirty seconds, his mind still processed agitatedly that it was morning and he had to get up; well, he didn't really _have_ to, but he knew he should.

Waiting for a minute he tried to get his brain working again. Propping himself up on one arm, England felt resistance around his middle and, just slightly peevish, glanced downwards to see America stubbornly wrapped around his middle with his head buried in his chest as if it was a pillow. Actually, that was normal. Almost every day he would wake up to find himself being used as a pillow by the American.

So he only sighed and pushed the other away gently enough so he wouldn't wake him. Nothing was worse than an Alfred in the morning.

Getting up from the queen-sized bed, England left the room without another motion towards the younger nation, instead favoring to go down to the kitchen and pack the food he bought for the picnic. (As he went down the halls he made sure to purposely avoid the room ruined by the toilet.) And the only reason the food was store-bought was because of America and his nagging that Germany and Italy would defiantly leave if it was his cooking. Screw that, England could cook bloody fine! It's just that nobody had his tastes.

Jamming a tinfoil wrapped, warm piece of chicken into an old basket, he grumbled to himself, sounding like an old man, though he'd never admit that to America.

It took a half-hour to finish packing for the picnic, and by the time he was done the basket was filled with delectable supermarket treats. Delicious . . . so says America.

After finishing England sat down at the table with a bowl of instant-oatmeal, lazily eating it while at the same time wondering when America would come down. The clock told him it was shortly after eleven, so what could he possibly be doing? England sure hoped he didn't accidentally wonder into the bathroom and fall through the hole in the floor - that wouldn't do for today at all.

All the thoughts swimming throughout his mind made England oblivious to America, who had just entered the kitchen and had seated himself on the other end of the table, a stupid smile on his face.

"Hey, Iggy."

Said Englishman almost fell out of his chair in surprise. Clutching his chest and inhaling rapidly, all England could do was glare his emerald eyes at America, which, admittedly, didn't look all that threatening with him as he was.

The weird laughter of his lover got him out of his semi-stroke. "Ha! You're SO weird, Arthur! Heh, you should go see a doctor."

A doctor? Really?

"Shut up and get ready, we're leaving soon." Pushing his chair back with more force than needed, the British man stomped out of the kitchen, grabbing the basket on his way out.

"That idiotic Yank. He needs to work on his mannerism. I KNOW I taught him better than that! If only he would look back to when he was younger and realize the drastic change he so wrongly made. I'm sure that'd get his brain functioning properly again!" he ranted, annoyed at both himself and America. Pausing at the nearest wall, he banged his head against it. Sometimes he wondered who was worse off; meaning him or America.

England stopped causing himself the loss of brain cells and went back upstairs, this time going to his own room.

Staring for a full-on minute at his dresser, England felt himself getting paranoid. If he wanted to propose to America today he knew he had to wear something nice. Not too uptight, but rather something America would like. Today was for America, even if the nation didn't know it yet.

Although England hated to admit it, he may have a slight case of paranoia. A really _really _small case of it. Like so little you had to squint to see it.

He pulled out a pair of new pants and inspected them thoroughly. They were a dark green, had thin black seams, and hung down far enough to brush the ground just slightly. A black belt had come with them and could adjust with ease.

Deeming them good enough, England opened his closet door and tore up the inside to find a shirt. Each one in there seemed to have at least_one _thing wrong with them.

Then there was one, all the way in the back, that caught his eye. It matched the color of his pants exactly and the sleeves and collar were cuffed. Overall, it looked good.

Throwing his own clothes off, he hurried to get into the new ones. He slipped on the pants - which were surprisingly loose fitting - and buckled them tight enough to keep them from sagging. Next came the shirt, and what England hadn't noticed before was that an undershirt was attached to it. Perfect. And the best thing about it was that it hugged his body snugly.

Now being satisfied the searching for gloves and boots began, and it went considerably faster than the two previous ones. Black boots and extremely dark green-black gloves were added to the outfit. He felt like he was planing a war in the outfit.

As he pulled on his leather gloves, England looked himself over in the mirror and grabbed a comb, trying desperately to calm the mop of hair on his head. It worked . . . sorta. Whatever, he looked good enough as it was. He mentally hoped America wouldn't suspect anything about it, though; if his plans got ruined he'd scream and throw a childish tantrum.

Setting the comb down he pressed a gloved hand to his face and steadily breathed in and out, thinking things over.

The weather was warm, the food was good, and the ring was beautiful.

The ring.

England slammed his hands down, causing half the contents on his dresser to fall. That's what he was stressing about! The ring! What if it wasn't good? Maybe he got something Alfred would deem "too girly." Who knew what the younger's reaction would be? But that's just it, right? Nobody could know until it happened. Arthur guessed there really wasn't anything he could do about it.

Shrugging the - or at least trying to - pestering thoughts away, his mind now focused on a small royal blue box that sat at his bedside table on a white cloth. He walked over to the stand and slowly opened the box, green eyes shimmering at what he saw as slim fingers picked it up.

The engagement ring was breath-taking. Small aqua diamonds dotted the entire perimeter, glistening brightly against the ring's silver surface. A small sentence was engraved along the circumference of the ring, right above the row of jewels. It read in Latin "_Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori."_ Just that, to England, described the love he shared with America without flaw. The words were written in soft gold that shimmered in the sunlight. The ring was neither big nor small, but a nice size that would fit comfortably over Alfred's slender fingers.

Arthur spent a lot of money on the ring and he knew many people would save that kind of money for the actual wedding ring, but he found no harm in spending just as much money - maybe more - on that one, though it was a bit awkward going to the jewelry store and describing the type of person he wanted to buy the ring for. Sometimes the ladies there gave him funny looks, and he didn't blame them since he would too.

Carefully placing the ring back into its velvet box and shutting the lid, England placed the box in his shirt's pocket. There, all ready for a picnic.

Running down the steps with picnic basket in hand, England called for America and waited at the door.

As America entered the scene England saw that he was dressed in his regular attire, bomber jacket and all. England smiled and the other gave one in return.

"Great, let's go."

* * *

The local park was nothing to think lowly about. It was one of the most beautiful parks England had ever come across in his centuries on earth. And that could go for almost anyone.

Acres upon acres of luscious green grass overtook the majority of it all, creating enough room for a hundred picnics at once. Sweet maple trees sprouted from the field at random intervals, letting the place seem more nature-like, but not enough to surround it to be considered a forest. And to top it all off, a crystal lake resided at its center. Ducks, frogs, and the like could be seen playing in and around the glistening liquid. No park in any town had ever been this roomy and great. Surely the ideal place to do something romantic.

And that's the reason England picked it.

Going back to him, and America, the duo were currently heading towards the lake. America, who had wanted to carry the basket, was someways ahead of England, skipping like an excited child would at an amusement park. England was entertained by it. And it wasn't just because he had a good view of the American's ass from the position - he wasn't just some pervert; that was only half true.

He watched America stop under a tree at the lake's edge, blue eyes looking back over at him.

England nodded and joined America under the tree, taking the basket back and grabbing a blanket from it to set down. "We'll eat when Germany and Italy get here, alright?" England quirked and eyebrow when a groan came from the other's lips, but smiled when a forced "fine" was spoken. Really, how old was America?

Turned out they didn't have to wait long at all. Not five minutes later did the two Axis members show up then did America shove something down his throat. Well, that is what England had said.

"Hello Germany, Italy. I'm glad the two of you could come." First sentence of the day, check.

Italy, who was holding a container of what England guessed to be pasta, smiled and waved, returning the greeting, "Buon pomeriggio, England! America! I brought pasta!" Italy exclaimed, holding up the container as a reference.

America greeted Italy with a hug - when they became such great friends England had no idea - and smiled back. "Great to see ya! And to hear you brought food! I'm starving!"

"Aren't you always," England muttered under his breath.

"Ah, that's wonderful! Let's eat then!" the Italian said heartily, taking a place next to America on the cloth.

England watched as Germany awkwardly stood there, no doubt feeling perplexed and at a loss of what to do. England offered him a smile. "Don't be shy. Go on, join Italy in the fun." That seemed to strike its mark.

Germany, rather stiffly, sat across from Italy, avoiding eye contact with anyone but Italy, who didn't really look his way that often, instead conversing energetically with America. England too felt weird, and thus the talking began.

"I, er, was a little if-y whether you two would actually show up."

And for the first time, Germany looked over at him. "Why would you think that?"

England tensed under the German's gaze, but tried to relax. "Well, you know, we don't exactly see eye-to-eye."

"Mmm, yeah, but Italy wanted to go, and I didn't have anything to do really." Germany said, voice growing more comfortable. So maybe it was possible for this picnic to turn out good.

"You didn't make any of the food, did you?" England heard the other say, voice a bit quieter.

Oh, no. England wasn't at all offended. Not one bit.

"WHAT? DOES MY COOKING DISGUST YOU THAT MUCH?! WELL, FOR YOU'RE INFORMATION, NO! I DIDN'T COOK A SINGLE THING IN THAT BASKET!" That defiantly put a dent in the forming conversation. And in Italy and America's conversation.

"Dude, chill. I don't think Germany said anything like that." America, who paused during the loud interruption, smiled crookedly and snickered. England was totally bipolar and he knew it.

England, eye twitching, did something like a growl. "I clearly can see when someone is criticizing my cooking, thank you very much. At least people appreciate my cupcakes!" Those green orbs sparkled dangerously, creeping the others out a little.

Germany was just about positive on one thing: "Are you insane?"

Now that wasn't too intelligent.

"INSANE? WHO'RE YOU CALLING INSANE?! EVEN FLYING MINT BUNNY KNOWS I AM THE MOST SANE PERSON ON THE PLANET! IF YOU CAN'T SEE IT THEN YOU'RE INSANE! HA! THAT'S RIGHT! THE LOT OF YOU ARE THE INSANE ONES! Now please excuse me while I go talk to that unicorn over there. At least she doesn't look like she wants to burden me with these negative comments!" England screamed out all but the last part, eyes deadly and breathing heavy. He bolted up and stormed off to where his unicorn friend was located at. All the while, America, Germany, and Italy watched with worried eyes, silently wondering when the Brit had snapped and turned into . . . that.

"Oh well! More food for us!" America, the first to recover, resumed shoving various foods in his mouth. Italy followed his lead and started on his pasta, offering Germany some, who took it with eyes still fixed on the Englishman.

And that exact Englishman was currently immersed in a sad conversation with the pink unicorn he saw before.

He sat in a slumped position on a log, his head buried in his hands. "I just don't get it, Angel. Why is it that everyone hates my cooking? I'm not that bad, right?"

Angel sat her head atop the wrecked nation's, comforting whinnies leaving her snout. "I think your cooking is simply fine, England. You shouldn't listen to people who degrade you like that. They're rude and insensitive, while you're talented and wonderful! I am certainly your friend! See, most people just ignore me and pretend I don't even exist. How very rude of them!" she huffed, clearly mad that no one ever pays her any mind.

England pulled his face away from the palms of his hands and saw small tears shimmering in the unicorn's violet eyes. He smiled and hugged her around the neck. "Oh, don't pay them any mind either. They're just jealous of the beauty you posses. I, on the other hand, can see your kind perfectly. If you ever get lonely you can always come to me and play."

Angel blushed, giving a small giggle. "Aw, you're too kind!"

The two laughed for a bit, enjoying each other's company immensely. How rare it was for Angel to ever find such company like this.

To the trio sitting under the maple tree, it looked as if England was furiously hugging the air. And conversing with it. America averted his eyes, knowing that this was the guy who had raised and fucked him. The thoughts sent a shiver down his spine. Would he end up like that one day? Sure, magic was cool and all, but being mental was something completely different.

"Hey! America! Is there really a unicorn over there? Because I can't see anything!" the Italian said, worry evident in his voice.

"Uh, not sure on that one." Honestly, he really wasn't.

"Oh, okay!" Italy logic.

Germany heard the little exchange and had to briefly wonder as well if the magical creatures England claimed to see were in fact "real." A quick glance to the English nation verified that they weren't. How could he possibly believe they were when in reality he saw England nuzzling his face against the air. _Just the air._

Perhaps he was the only normal one left.

America and Italy had made a small plane out of the pasta.

Yep, he was the only normal one. Now all that was left was to see how the Brit proposed. How interesting could that be? Especially with the other rolling around on the grass.

Wait, what?

* * *

**_A/N _** this is a story I had been writing with a friend and she decided she wanted out, so she let me post it on my page and continue it


	3. And The Problems Begin

**_And The Problems Begin_**

* * *

England didn't try to start a conversation with Germany again . . . or Italy . . . or even America. He sat Indian-style with a plate of pasta in hand, slowly winding the noodles around his fork, and then quickly shoving it into his mouth. The Italian food certainly was delicious - surpassing even his own culinary skills. But that was to be expected since it was Italy cooking, and Italy was a damn good cook, especially with foods in the pasta category.

Pointless conversation from America and Italy reached his ears but nothing did make it to his brain.

Germany also didn't seem to be comfortable, which at least made England a little more relaxed about his own personality. He was _not _too uptight. Or socially awkward.

Shoving another mouthful of pasta into his mouth, England mentally cursed. So what if he had just been talking to a unicorn? It certainly did_not _give America the right to talk about his mental stability. He had half the mind to shove the blonde's head into the pasta dish.

Nah. He'd probably only start eating the contaminated food. So America-like.

"Oh my God! Guys! I just had the most totally awesome idea ever thought of! And we're gonna do it!" America's exclamation almost made England choke on his fork.

"Bloody hell, America! Are you trying to kill me?!" With the coughing and sputtering England was going through it was nearly impossible to form just that sentence and say it in a semi-threatening manner.

America laughed. "Ha, sorry." Damn right he wasn't. "Anyway, we all should play a picnic game! Ya know, since we are having a picnic and all I thought it would be appropriate to do something like that. Don't you guys think so?" The blinding smile on his face showed that he knew nobody would have anything against playing whatever game he had in mind. Just wait until he heard England. That smile would be gone before-

_Hold up a minute, England. What the hell are you thinking? Aren't you, oh I don't know, supposed to be_ trying _to get on America's good side today? Yes, yes you are. Now stop being a prick and do whatever he wants!_

You know it's sad whenever you start having arguments with yourself.

"What do you even want to play, America?" England, considerably more controlled than before, asked, holding back the bitterness that wanted to follow along with it. He had to stay cool today and let whatever America wanted happen. That would make the obnoxious nation happy.

A stupid smile planted itself right on America's face. "Hide and Seek!"

Good thing England expected something idiotic to come from the other's mouth, or else he might of face-planted right in his pasta.

_"Seriously?" _England didn't wait for an answer right after he said that. "You want to play _that? _Here? Why on earth would you want to do something so childish?" Easy: Because America was a child at heart, no matter how many wars he had gone through. England only wished the nation could act a little bit more adult-like.

The annoyed voice of England must not of reached America's ears. "Sure! Who wouldn't wanna play? You want to, right Italy?"

"Sì! It sounds fun!" Italy turned over to Germany, brown eyes shining. "You wanna play too, Germany?"

Obviously Germany couldn't just say no. "Ja, I guess so."

Great, England had to agree now. "Fine, but I'm only playing once."

America rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't want to strain yourself considering how old you are."

It took so much willpower to not punch America in the face.

"Anyway, guys, we'll do this a little differently! We'll play in pairs!" he declared, fist pumping the air to make a point. Probably. "Italy, you and Germany will be one and me and grumpy-brows over here will be the other pair! We'll hide and you two try and find us!"

Well, "grumpy-brows" was a new one. England frowned. "America, you do realize what you just said doesn't make this Hide and Seek anymore, correct? It's something similar but different." England stated, trying to make the American see sense.

All that happened was America furrowing his eyebrows slightly. "Then it'll be called Seek and Hide."

"That's not-Never mind." England didn't even try.

"Great! Let's do it!" America, who rarely ever left when food was present, hauled England up to his feet with ease and took off towards a clumpy tree area on the other side of the lake, shouting over his shoulder as he did, "Wait one minute before coming to search for us!" And then they disappeared into the trees in an excited, cursing, blonde mess.

Italy blinked.

"Germany, what just happened?"

Germany didn't have an answer.

* * *

Back in the forest-like area of the park, England was pissed. So what if he wanted to have America in an extremely good mood for today? That didn't give the other nation the right to practically drag him into the trees all the while laughing at England's sailor mouth as he did. Nope. England was now ready to put a shotgun to the American's head - but of course he'd never shoot; how could he ever possibly do that? But he was going to give the childish nation hell if anything at all.

_"America!" _he hissed, keeping his voice low.

Said nation, who was currently peaking out from behind a tree, turned back to England. "Hmm?"

God he was ever the blunt one. "What the hell?! You don't go around dragging people! Who does that?!" England swore his muscles were having a spasm on the inside.

America gave him a look. Just a look. "Dude, what's your problem? I was just having some fun. You're such a buzz kill half the time, you know that?"

England spoke through gritted teeth, "I don't care what you think I am. What I do care about is how you're ever going to have a proper country with the way you act."

"It's going fine now."

"There are difficulties in life."

"I know; I've already dealt with some."

"There are far worse ones."

"Worse than the Depression?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll deal with those when they come."

And that's how you have a conversation with America.

"Fine, whatever. Let's just start this thing already." England rubbed the palm of his hand against one of his temples, not caring to continue arguing over something so important about taking care of one's country.

"Great! Now help me find us a proper hiding spot!" A bright smile lit up America's face once again. He charged off deeper into the woods, not really waiting for England, who wasn't in the least interested in finding a place to hide.

"Maybe we could hide in a tree, or behind a tree, or near a tree. It has to have something to do with trees since there are a lot of trees around here. What do you think?" Pausing near a (gasp) tree, America glanced back at England, eyes startlingly serious with the mission of finding an ideal place to hide. It worried the elder.

"Why don't we just use a bush or something? There seem to be plenty scattered around here."

The frown on America's face reminded England of a student getting a bad grade. "But England, we _can't!"_

"And why's that?"

"Because . . ." America drew out that word pointlessly. "There are more trees than bushes."

England raised a brow skeptically. "And that means . . ?"

"We _must _use the trees, else there will be an apocalypse." His face didn't even contain an ounce of amusement.

Briefly wondering if this was the America he tried to raise so properly, England shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened them when he heard small gasps coming from America. "Now what is it?"

"They're coming! Quick! We have to hide before it's too late!" America was stuck between having a stroke or a seizure. His face looked pretty constipated. "C'mon England! They'll get you!" Grabbing England's arm, America bolted for the other side of the forest. Well, he tried, but this time England was prepared for it and didn't move an inch - he _could _be strong when he wanted to, thanks.

"There's a bush right there America. Just use that."

The look America threw back at him was of sheer desperation. It was like he thought his life depended on whether or not he could hide in a tree.

"Do you want to die? Think for a minute England!"

"Think about what? There's a bush so use it!" What did go on in America's mind? England didn't really want to find out. If anything, it would probably scar him for life, unlike the scars on his back, which were from America. Because he scratches. Hard.

"No!"

There was no way England was dealing with this today. "America, get in the BUSH! _Now!"_

"I don't wanna!"

It was like America had a freaking phobia. England wasn't asking something irrational, but America just wouldn't cooperate. Why? That's not his style. No, his style was to refuse everything England said to do.

"It's not going to kill you!" England took a step towards America, who in turn stepped back.

"How do you know?"

"It's a bush. You see them every day!"

"Not in Antarctica!"

"You don't _live _in Antarctica."

"What if I did?"

"Does it matter?! Just crawl in the bloody bush!" England wanted to strangle something, preferably America. He instead tackled him to the ground, resulting in the both of them falling into the bush. Branches scratched both America and England's face but none of that mattered to the latter when he successfully completed the task with blood trickling down his face - adding to the demented effect. America squirmed like a child beneath him, pushing uselessly at his chest to try and escape. England didn't let up on his grip in the slightest.

"Deal with it." England smiled at his accomplishment. America whined.

"But I don't want to! I want to hide in a tree!"

Again with the tree thing. "What's your sudden interest in them? Why do you need to hide in one so badly?"

America stopped struggling to look at England like it should be obvious. "'Cause they're around here, duh. Why choose a bush when you're surrounded by trees? Think about logic for a minute, would you?" Oh, how he wanted to slap him.

"Me? Think about logic? Yeah, okay. I don't think so. Maybe you should."

The look on America's face was like England had slapped him. "_I _should think about logic? Are you nuts? You know I don't think."

That was true. "Yeah, I guess so." His green eyes narrowed again. "But that doesn't give you the right to argue at me over trees! _Trees!"_

America grinned a bit sheepishly. "Ha . . yeah. I'm not certain where that came from."

_That whole in your head you call a brain, _England mentally said, not daring to speak it, but really wanting to.

England let out a breathless laugh, not having a response to that. His sanity was also wearing away bit by bit. But that was to be expected when living with the idiotic nation. So he stayed there on top of the other, a strained smile on his face while on the inside he was going through various phases of mental stability. America was off in la la land, staring blankly into space as England laughed above him. The two were a pair of hopeless idiots, but that was a well-known fact. They were so absorbed in their own little worlds that when the bush rustled around them neither noticed.

"Germany! I found them! And I think England was trying to rape America! Is that bad?"

Both did snap back into reality, however, when they heard Italy's exclamation.

"Italy!" For the third time that day, England almost had a heart attack.

"Hi." America didn't have anything, nor did he even act remotely startled.

A few seconds passed before a head of bleach blonde hair moved to stand next to Italy, looking down at the duo with bored and uninterested blue eyes. "No, Italy, they're just going through phases different from normal people."

Italy blinked, then smiled. "Oh, goody! That's nice."

How anybody could think of that as "nice" did not process in England's head.

Jumping off of America faster than light, England dusted himself off and put on the whole nothing-happened-so-what-are-you-looking-at face.

"Can I talk to the both of you? In private." That sentence just sort of came out of England's mouth without any consult with his brain, but it is what was needed to be said. He glanced down to see America in the middle of getting up and almost tumbling back down, confusion written over his face. England grabbed the other's hand before he could fall back. "And could you go on back to the picnic blanket? I'll be done here in a minute." England didn't wait for a response when he let go of America's hand and turned to face Germany and Italy, a serious look painted on his face, emerald eyes set.

America was about to press England for answers but a little part in his mind kept him from doing so. He turned back and walked away from the trio, not looking back in favor of wondering why England was being so harsh.

England, who hadn't realized America was taking his intentions the wrong way, was nearly clinging to Germany's shirt. "You _need _to help me!"

Germany would've backed up if it wasn't for the tree behind him. "W-why?"

"I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PROPOSE!" Dramatic tears lined the corners of England's eyes. "This day has not been going as smoothly as I wanted it to and now I don't even know if America will accept! I screwed this up! All of it! Everything! Even if it isn't my fault, it is!" Germany was never good at comforting people, but to comfort England was like eating a cactus. Completely unthinkable. But he did put a hand on the Englishman's back, patting him rather awkwardly.

"It's, er, alright?" Eh, he tried.

"NO IT'S NOT! IT NEVER WILL BE! Oh God, what do I DO?!"

Germany feared his shirt would be ruined by the time England regained his bearings.

And that's when Italy took over, ever the romantic.

"Just switch around how you're acting!" Blunt and to the point, Italy offered a bright smile.

England detached himself from Germany - who thanked whoever was watching - and turned to the Italian. "What do you mean?"

"Be the way America would like you to be, and be SUPER nice, and then he'll be just fine!"

"That does make sense." England concluded.

"Doesn't it?" Italy rapidly nodded his head. "Yeah, yeah! It does!"

England sighed, eyeing the ground. "But I still don't know how I'll ever ask him . . ."

"That's easy! Just do it!" Sometimes, in those rare moments on earth, Italy could be smart. England realized that.

"You're right! Who cares how it's asked? I shouldn't be stressing over this silly little thing; I should be ready for it! And why wouldn't he say yes? I'm an idiot for even thinking he'd say no! How absurd!" England rejoiced in his discovery while Italy happily swayed from side to side and Germany looked sadly down at his tear-stained shirt. "I'll do it now, how about that? Come on mates, let's go back to the blanket!"

England confidently led the way, the others trailing a few paces behind him.

He was so full of himself that he didn't notice anything until he was right in front of the blanket, ready to speak, only what came out of his mouth wasn't what he had been planning to say.

"Where's America?!"

* * *

A/N this is a story I had been writing with a friend and she decided she wanted out, so she let me post it on my page and continue it


	4. Despite All, Shit Happens

**_Despite All, Shit Happens_**

* * *

When America's senses came to, the first thing he did was shiver. Harshly. All he knew about where he was was that it felt like being on a mountaintop. A small bubble of unease rose in his stomach and he had an internal debate over keeping his eyes permanently shut or taking in his surroundings, however horrible they may be. The first almost won out, until an accented voice hit his ears.

"You are comfortable?"

America's bubble of unease turned into one of fear; he knew that voice and he really wished he didn't. America opened his eyes, sapphire orbs growing a fraction at what he saw despite already knowing.

"Russia," It was only after the other smiled a fake sweet smile did America find he was strapped down on an icy ledge-type surface. He glanced past Russia's large form to discover - with an audible gasp - that he was in an ice cave. Giving a curious pull at his restraints America found them to be heavy metal chains that barely moved at his pull. How peculiar.

"What do you want with me?" Try as he might, America could not keep the fear out of his voice.

The Russian, much to America's annoyance, let out a childish giggle, a much too innocent look on his face. "Oh, nothing really. I had heard you were on a picnic with Англия and decided I didn't like that very much. So why not come and ruin the occasion, da?" However angelic Russia looked on his exterior the malice in those violet eyes were as bright and obvious as the sun in the desert. America _really_ hated that.

"Too bad England'll come and get me before you can start your rape-fest," he spoke cockily, like he could already sense the British man on a quest to retrieve him. Though he was totally _not _a damsel in distress.

Russia tilted his head to the side, feigning amusement. "Is that what you think? How funny, considering the fact that you're currently in a high mountain cave in my country."

America wasn't sure when his jaw had dropped.

"I suggest you make yourself at home, моя дорогая Америка." Oh how he absolutely despised that smile. "I'll be taking my leave now, but I shall be back within due time." Waving a gloved hand the large man exited the cave, disappearing from the American's sight.

Said American wanted to melt into the ice beneath him; he wasn't sure Arthur would actually come and get him out of his little predicament. Of all the places Russia just had to take him to a mountain cave. If only he could somehow tell England that - he didn't favor staying in a cave forever.

* * *

"AMERICA! _AMERICA! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?! _AMERICA!"

And on the other side of the world, England was about to burst. He, Germany, and Italy had returned just three minutes ago and already the picnic basket, blanket, a few surrounding trees, and a dozen yards of grass were in tatters, if it was even possible to tatter grass like fabric. It was safe enough to say that England was beyond worried or angry. Oh no, England was something akin to a grizzly bear on steroids. Italy and Germany were forced to watch the events play out, worry written across their faces. Sure it was normal for the man to have tea parties with his imaginary friends, but this was the first time either of the nations witnessed the Englishman have a tantrum, and a ginormous one at that. They would have been lying if they said that they weren't concerned about the other's mental stability.

England threw the blanket over again for the fiftieth time, growling when he was met with nothingness. He _told _America to go straight back to the picnic blanket while he talked with Germany and Italy. Could the arrogant nation not follow one simple order?

Throwing the blanket back to the ground England grit his teeth, shaking his head. No, America wouldn't even do something so stupid. What would that accomplish? Annoying England, yeah, but other than that, nothing. There had to be another reason as to why England couldn't locate the younger nation.

"England?" voiced Germany, getting tired of the ballistic Briton. But to his displeasure, the other decided to ignore him in favor of tearing up more of the park. England really wasn't in the mood to talk; he really just wanted to find his friend/boyfriend/lover/hopefully-soon-to-be-fiancée. (Yes, he used the feminine spelling just to make a point to the American and everyone else). England wanted to scream in frustration, but that would be considered childish, and he was certainly not that, but a proper self-proclaimed gentleman.

Stomping over to a nearby tree in the most non-childlike fashion he could muster, England drew his nails down the bark, scraping the calloused pads of his fingers beneath his gloves. His emerald eyes caught a flicker of light pink just barely out of the corner of his eye. Turning just to find out his peripheral vision wasn't lying to him, England cautiously picked up the string as if it were about to burst into flames at the touch. He examined the little piece of thread with scrutinizing eyes. Something about the innocent pink string made him wary and his gut clench.

But it was his only lead to whatever/whoever was responsible for America's absence, and damn the world if the person thought he would just ignore the situation at hand.

Shifting from foot to foot, green eyes never leaving the thread, England pondered over the mysterious minute object held in between his thumb and index finger. What could a string possibly lead him to? And why would one unsettle his stomach so much? There was defiantly something about it that didn't let England relax.

Its color was what bothered him the most. That almost white pink had a strange effect on England's subconsciousness; he felt something wanting to show itself, but it was harder to track down the thought than said.

_Pink . . . light pink . . . it's soft, like a scarf. A scarf? A pink scar-_

England let the string drop to the ground, lips set in a firm line, green eyes widening. Whatever the signs pointed to, England did _not _want them to be right.

Teeth grinding together hard enough to make his jaw pulse painfully, England marched over to the two waiting countries, emerald eyes alight with a look death would shiver at. "Germany, Italy," England's voice was cold and held close to no emotion. "sorry for the abruptness, but we're taking a little trip."

Italy exchanged a confused glance with Germany, neither countries understanding. "Um, where _Inghilterra_?"

The expression on England's face could only be described as murderous.

"Russia."

Germany and Italy were in for the most retarded adventure of a lifetime.

* * *

To sum up the next five hours here is what basically happened: England forced Germany and Italy to accompany him to Russia on an express flight, despite him totally being able to handle the situation on his own; Italy protested and said that his pasta would get cold; England shoved the food down the others' throats; Germany had to carry Italy for the majority of the journey; the trio ended up in a below-freezing mountainous reign in Russia; England cussed out the world and its mother almost the entire time; they ventured up an enormously insane huge mountain; and sometime along the way, they stopped to buy coats to make Italy's mindless complaining cease. Overall, it was a stupid, idiotic, mental journey that only complete retards would take on. Apparently England, Germany, and Italy were categorized as such.

The three countries were currently trekking up a slippery, caked-in-snow mountain, and all the while Italy was eating pasta. England's arms were wrapped around himself without consult with his mind, though his body felt next to nothing by the chilly weather - it was apparent England only wanted to find America and destroy the rest of the world while he did so. Germany wasn't speaking to either of them to instead think over why he even agreed to a picnic. It sounded fine at first, but how it turned into this was something not even the highest power in the universe could possibly answer.

Germany attempted to zip his coat up further but found that he couldn't. He sighed, blue eyes watching England - who was ahead of them all - climb the steep hill, a scowl written over his face. Germany was certain England had no idea where the "cave" America was in, being held captive by "Russia." The assumption sounded absurd but he wasn't about to tell that to the angered Brit.

"England?"

Said country didn't give any indication that he heard but Germany went on.

"Are you certain Russia was the one to take America? Isn't it possible America simply wandered off when you told him to go back? And if he was 'kidnapped' how do you assume he's in a cave, here, in Russia? That's a bit far fetched if you ask me."

England's climbing came to a halt and Germany briefly wondered if he said too much. "I don't need to guess where America's been taken because I _know - _Russia's been eyeing America for nearly a year now and it would only make sense that he was the one to take America. It clearly has to be him. And I also know it's here because where else would be an ideal place in Russia for that gargantuan idiot to take my sweet little America! He'll rob America of all his innocence and I most certainly will _not _let that happen, even if it kills me!"

Germany was about to respond with "Innocence? What innocence? All America's innocence already has to have been taken by being in the bed with you" but he bit his tongue before a single word could escape his lips. Who knew what kind of torture England would devise to get back at him for that comment.

"Ah, right. I just hope we get to wherever we need to get to soon; I think Italy's about to fall over dead."

The Italian wasn't far from it. He resembled a zombie, and a pretty poor one at that. Germany picked him up just before he hit the ground and carried him behind England, mumbling protests.

"How long until we get there?" Germany asked, not able to hold in his irritation any longer.

He watched the other country shrug. "If I'm right then over this hill. If I'm wrong then who knows? I can't be expected to know everything. Why don't you do something productive?" England's voice had a snotty rich-kid tone to it.

Germany held back a growl. "I'm carrying Italy. How is that not productive?"

"Whatever," England ignored everything else and continued up the hill, trying to fight back screaming out his frustration to all of Russia's mountains.

It took maybe ten more minutes for the three of them to reach the top, and when they did England immediately stopped everything besides breathing to look at what was in front of him.

A small ledge jutted out from another mountain, connecting the other and the one they stood atop. Some ways down was an opening to a cavern of ice. There was no mistaking it; he knew that's where Russia rested with America, unsuspecting their arrival. A sinister smile passed over his face - he could see no flaws in his plan. Getting America back would be as easy as riding a bike . . . so long as Italy didn't end up dying in his sleep. That wouldn't do for England's plan at all.

* * *

A/N this is a story I had been writing with a friend and she decided she wanted out, so she let me post it on my page and continue it


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